Samson
by aeternium
Summary: Nasir and Agron share a private moment after Vesuvius. Fill for anonymous prompt, "Agron cuts Nasir's hair."


When Agron finally comes to bed the night of victory at Vesuvius, he wishes for nothing more than the well-earned warmth of Nasir's body and dreams of triumphant future. Nasir smiles at his arrival, but Agron is taken aback by the additional presence of a newly-dressed bandage around his dark arm.

"I thought you to be unhurt," he says, frowning, climbing to the makeshift bed and taking Nasir to his lap. Carefully, he runs his hands beneath the small, muscled arm to better inspect the damage, but the Syrian lightly pushes away his touch.

"A thing of no account," he protests, then reminds with a roguish smile, "I have suffered worse."

Agron laughs, winds his hand within Nasir's silken hair, and brings him to his mouth, catching his bottom lip in brief conquest. Though he knew his lover to be more than capable with the sword, the knowledge had not prevented concern in the midst of battle. More than once, a treacherous alliance of mind and eye had led him to believe Nasir had fallen. As though sharing thoughts, Nasir surges forward to claim Agron's mouth.

They have done this already, the moment victory was certain, crashing together in a wave of elation and scrambling to find solid grasp upon one another, proving to the other _yes, I am here, we are still here, we have faced the gods of death and emerged the victors, for us we yet breathe_. Even so, Nasir pins him to the bed, travels down Agron's neck with his mouth, pressing and biting, not enough to draw blood but to give proof to their continued existence. He writes Agron's name in bruises over his collarbone, buries his own within the scar above his German's heart. That ripped, puckered patch of tissue remains sensitive even after so many years, and Agron groans quite gratifyingly when Nasir kisses it, so he does so again.

When he comes up for breath, Agron is smiling breathlessly, fingers playing through black tresses, and though Nasir knows it's rude to start things he can't finish, there is business to attend to.

"It is for vanity that I suffer wound," he admits. "A warrior must always see his opponent."

A moment passes as Agron processes this. Then, quietly he asks, "What would you have me do?"

Slowly, regretfully, Nasir climbs off of him, off of the bed, and takes into his hand a small knife from the armor and weapons they have discarded to the floor. He turns to face Agron, who closes his eyes for but a moment before meeting his gaze once more and nodding. Running his fingers through Nasir's glossy mane is a diversion from which Agron never tires, yet it is a small price to pay for the continued blood rushing through his veins.

Slowly, he allows his hands to trace tenderly upwards along Nasir's warm chest, stopping momentarily to feel the beating of heart beneath palm, then leads his shoulders gently around, turning the man to face away from him. He runs the same palm down the length of his arm, covering Nasir's grip with his own, and taking the knife into simultaneous hold. Agron wraps his free arm across his chest and, for the final time, bows his head into the nape of Nasir's neck to breathe in the scent of sleek inky locks.

Nasir tucks his chin down, locking it beneath Agron's arm, and presses a kiss to the skin he finds there. They breathe as one, in and out, but when the taller man makes no motion to continue his charge, Nasir loosens his grip on the knife and says quietly, "I would have you see the task to completion before sleep comes."

Releasing his lover from comforting embrace, Agron takes full control of the blade, and with secure hands raises it to the midway point of the Syrian's neck. The cuts are slow and gentle, and though Nasir stiffens at the first meeting of hair and floor tile, he soon relaxes into the soft, crisp noise and the soothing hum of Agron's breathe.

Then it is finished.

When Nasir turns, the ghost of a self-conscious grin makes itself evident upon his features. For a moment, Agron does nothing but drink in the sight of this man with his hair cropped short, this man who cannot be but the gods' favorite, this beautiful man who chose _him_. Then he can't help it – he grins. He _laughs_. He pulls Nasir's face – now bearing a full, dazzling smile – to his and kisses him hard, full on the mouth, large hands acquainting themselves with short, downy hair, still silken, still the color of ebony and ink, still there with him after all they have endured.


End file.
